Beyond Forever
by Bexangel8
Summary: The tension between the Druids and Camelot is building... but can Rebecca and Sophie - a princess and a druid girl - get through this and sort out the truth and their own tangled love lives? Warning: Contains slight angst and outrageously handsome knights. This is my first ever fanfic so please review!
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Twigs snapped and crunched on the ground under Sophia's feet as she crept through the undergrowth to the edge of the well-beaten dirt track that led to Camelot from Bayard's kingdom. She needed to deliver a message to a group in different part of the forest, but it was more difficult than it seemed; if Prince Arthur or any of his knights saw her here, they'd arrest her and she'd be executed. Quickly, she checked to see if anybody was coming, and darted back into the bushes as she saw a procession of horses coming from the north with a crest she didn't recognise emblazoned on each of the flags. _Damn it_. Just another thing to remember to report to Ayre, her leader.

As the line of horses and people went past, Sophia watched from her hiding place. All the horses were black and carried a knight dressed in shining silver armour with a pale blue sash. All except one. One horse, a mare, was pure white, and on her back was a young girl, possibly about 16 years of age. Her eyes were a bright, honest blue, and framed with dark lashes that almost brushed her cheeks when she looked down. She had a clear but pale complexion that gave her the air of a porcelain doll; Sophia couldn't help but think that if she fell of the horse, she would smash into a hundred tiny pieces. Luxurious auburn hair tumbled in glossy curls down the girl's back, ending just below her waist, and small flowers (_possibly daisies_, thought Sophia) were woven into a circlet which rested gently on her head. She wore an aqua blue dress with floating sleeves and an elegant skirt. Overall, the girl's appearance, stature and attitude were that of a member of a royal family, or at least a noble. Yet Sophia couldn't help but pity her for this; she would never know what it was like to have to fight for her rightful place, or to save somebody she loved, or to marry for love and not power. In other words, she was missing out on everything that Sophia loved about being a Druid.

As the procession faded into a row of black matchstick-men on the purple horizon, Sophia breathed a sigh of relief and darted stealthily across the track and into the trees on the other side, wincing as she snagged her leg on a bramble. Dusk was falling over the valley now, blanketing everything in a seductive twilight and bringing the smell of dew and moss and soil. Everything always seemed so much more intense at this time of day. However, sophia didn't have time to relish it this time: She needed to get to the other camp by nightfall, or else she could encounter all sorts of things in the woods in the dark. When she was little, her uncle had told her stories around the fire of cockatrices, giant scorpions, manticores... you name it. Although Sophia laughed away these legends on the outside, there was a small part of her that worried about what would happen to her in the forest if she went there after dark, and this was enough to quicken her light, agile step as she moved eastwards, away from the setting sun.

The moon was rising in the sky by the time Princess Rebecca and her entourage arrived at the citadel in Camelot, and Rebecca looked up at it with a smile, acknowledging the symbolism of the Triple Goddess in her most beautiful form. Her mother had always told her that she was like the moon - pale, calm, feminine and beautiful: She had never really believed the last bit, though.

Her thoughts were brought closer to earth by the raucous clanging of a heavy metal gate in the gatehouse. As she rode through, she looked about at her surroundings. The castle was huge, rearing up into the sky, and from Rebecca's point in the central courtyard, it seemed as if it went on forever in every direction. Numerous turrets were scattered across the roof, and the whole building was made of gleaming white stone which reflected what little light there was and dazzled the princess' eyes. _Wow_. In front of her was a fleet of stone steps, and down these steps a boy was hurrying, his scarlet cloak fluttering behind him.

He looked about her age. However, as he drew closer, she saw that he was nothing like any other boy she'd ever met; if she was the moon, then he was the sun. He had floppy blond hair which he flicked out of his hazel eyes with a toss of his head every now and again. He wasn't tall, but he was a good head taller than her, and what he didn't have in height, he made up for in muscle: Even beneath his chainmail, she could see he was exceptionally well built. He exuded confidence and seemed completely at ease with himself, a concept that Rebecca wasn't very familiar with. His skin was tanned and the combination of gold, scarlet and amber reminded Rebecca of the warmth of flames beside her hands.

"Princess Rebecca. Welcome to Camelot! Please, feel free to feed and rest your horses. Merlin will show you where to go," he told her knights, and they slouched off, following a tall, black haired boy wearing a red scarf. His voice, Rebecca couldn't help noticing, had a deep, rich tone and sent tingles down her spine. Then he addressed her again, bringing her out of the reverie.

"I'm Prince Arthur. My father sent me to meet you - he was worried you might have lost your way. I-" Arthur broke off as Merlin approached him from a shadowy corner.

"What are you doing back already?" I told you to show the knights to the stables!"

"I've done that, sire," muttered Merlin reproachfully, lowering his head. Rebecca gave him a sympathetic smile.

"So what are you hanging around for? My armour needs polishing, my horses need mucking out, and I swear there's a rat in my chambers again."

"Yes sire," Merlin apologised, and ran to a door in the corner of the courtyard which he promptly vanished through, probably to complete one of Arthur's demands.

"Poor boy. Can't he have a break? It's getting late," Rebecca said timidly, glancing up at Arthur through her eyelashes. Arthur stared back like it was the most ridiculous suggestion he'd ever heard.

"A break? Hell, he doesn't deserve one. He's the worst servant I've ever known - he needs to earn his place or I'll find somebody else," the prince snorted dismissively. "Come on - we need to go and meet my father before he becomes impatient."

It was then that Rebecca bagan to feel some misgivings about the Adonis she had just met. Perhaps he wasn't so great after all. He certainly wasn't very compassionate.

As they walked through the castle to the throne room for Rebecca to be presented to King Uther, Rebecca noticed hunting trophies adorning the walls - a stag's head, boar's tusks... even a unicorn horn. When she asked Arthur about them, he told her, with a double helping of swagger, that he had killed the animals himself on sporting trips with other knights of Camelot. A wave of nausea swept over Rebecca when he told her this. _Who kills innocent animals for a living?_, she thought, looking at the objects in dismay. She added _arrogant _and _insensitive_ to her list of reasons to dislike Arthur Pendragon.

Her meeting with King Uther went well, she thought; he seemed delighted to have her stay with him in his court, and was less overconfident than his son, although he seemed to have a bit of a temper. However, her good mood was shattered when Arthur, who had insisted on walking her to her chambers, said goodbye to her.

"I'd give you my calling card, but I'm sure you won't forget me in a hurry," he told her. "Arthur Pendragon, master swordsman, and your new crush." Rebecca's mouth fell open in disbelief at his words, and, mistaking her gesture for admiration, Arthur turned and walked away, raising his eyebrows suggestively at her over his shoulder. Jeez, she thought. If his head gets any bigger he won't be able to put his helmet on. And how dare he talk to her like that?! He was a presumptuous, unchivalrous _rat._

In her rooms, Rebecca carefully unpacked her luggage for her month-long stay in the Camelot court. In the bottom of her trunk, however, she found a letter, written on a piece of calfskin parchment, and sealed with a pale blue bow and her father's crest. Overcome with curiosity, she opened it and read it.

_Dear Rebecca,_

_I hope you have arrived safely and that you are enjoying the company of Uther and his son. It is on this subject that I am writing this letter. I need you to enjoy Arthur's company. As you know, when I die, the kingdom and everything in it will pass to your brother, Edward. therefore, I must make sure that you marry well. Uther and I have agreed that a match between your fair self and Arthur would be highly desirable, and would benefit both our kingdoms. This is very important my darling,because if you remain unmarried, you will become destitute and could live in poverty. So, do everything in your power to secure his affections, for your sake and mine. Good luck sweetheart._

_Your loving father_

For at least 5 minutes, Rebecca was paralysed. When she could move, she could only gape in horror. When her father told her she was going to spend time in Camelot, she had no idea that this was the reason! She lay on her four-poster bed, tears dampening thepillow,as 3 thoughts echoed around her head. Firstly, that Arthur Pendragon was the damn sexiest boy she had ever seen. Secondly, that she was destined to spend the rest of her life with him. And thirdly, that she absolutely loathed him. What was she going to do?


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

It was mid morning, and Sophia walked listlessly through the forest, basking in the dappled sunlight that was filtering through the branches above her head. She let her fingers trail over the bracken either side of the makeshift path through the undergrowth. Passing a pool, she knelt on the bank and drank from her hands in quick, dainty sips, looking around her the whole time - that had been one of the first things she had been taught when she was a child: Never bend over to drink. If you did, anybody could easily approach from behind without you noticing, and it would be harder to get up and defend yourself. She drank her fill and jumped lithely to her feet, but before she could move away again, she caught sight of her reflection in the shimmering surface of the water.

Sophia had always been told that she looked like her mother. Her hair was raven black and cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of ebony, and was a sharp contrast to her complexion, which was pale and never seemed to tan despite the fact that she literally lived outdoors. She had startlingly green eyes, which seemed big in comparison to her elfin face and high cheekbones, and full lips that always seemed to be pulled upwards in a smile that suggested she was thinking of something secret and amusing. She knew that amongst the Druids, she was thought to be beautiful - some of the boys her age stared at her when she was around, and the girls whispered about her when they thought she wasn't within earshot. As a result, Sophia spent most of her time away from camp, on her own. Because although she was pretty, Sophia couldn't stand the sight or mention of her own reflection. It brought back too many memories, and these came flooding back as she stared into the pool.

_They were by the lake on another of their walks, and they had stopped to take a break by the water. He was taller than her, and she leaned her head back against his shoulder to gaze into his eyes. His were exactly the same shade as hers, and they sparkled with worldly mischief and acceptance of her just as she was. He had dark brown hair that reminded Sophia of freshly cut wood, and he smelled of woodsmoke, moss and the pure scent of water. she loved that smell: It was completely him, and it made her feel at home. Then, without warning, he scooped her up in his arms (he was stronger than he seemed), causing her to shriek and giggle._

_"Mordred! Put me down!" She demanded, trying to keep a straight face._

_"No," he replied simply, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm afraid you're much too gorgeous to let go."_

_"Liar," she told him. Then, with a cunning flip of her body, she wriggled out of his arms and stood on her own two feet, only to be tackled to the floor by Mordred. Laughing, they play-wrestled on the ground until she was pinned bneath him, her arms aither side of her head, and her face about 6 inches from his. Her eyes traced the outline of hs lips, dragging up all the fantasies she entertained about him which she wouldn't even admit to herself... He leaned closer, and his eyes began to close. Suddenly, he seemed to check himself and stopped abruptly, rolling off of her onto his stomach and easing the unexpected awkwardness by laughing._

_"I win," he announced, propping himself up on his elbows and looking into the water at himself. Sophia copied him, examining their mirror images side by side. Out in the middle of the lake, a fish broke the surface, sending perfectly circular ripples to the banks, shattering their reflections, but before the images broke, Sophia could have sworn she saw Mordred mouth form the word 'beautiful' with his lips._

About three weeks after that day, Mordred had left, and Sophia had been distraught... that is, until the news reached her that Mordred had gone to Camelot and joined the ranks of knights there. Then she wasn't distraught anymore - she was mad. He hadn't confided in her, he had left her without so much as a word, he had stolen her heart then thrown it back at her, broken and hurting. From that time onwards, she had never been able to look at her own reflection. It reminded of the day when she had almost kissed the only boy she had ever wanted, and he told her she was beautiful.

Recovering from the shock beside the pool, Sophia leapt to her feet and ran as fast as she could towards the camp, desperate to get as far away as possible. The soles of her feet burned, and her breath tore through her chest in ragged gasps, every muscle in her body screaming for relief, but she didn't slow up. Finally, she arrived in the clearing where they were living, and immediately vanished into her tent. She stayed there for a long time, until Savannah, a young blonde girl of around eight or nine, stuck her head though the hole in the fabric to tell Sophia that Ayre wanted to see her. Sighing, Sophia dragged herself out of the makeshift room and headed to her leader's tent, where other people were already assembled - the other warriors, she realised.

Ayre was already speaking when she came in, and one of the men filled her in on what she missed.

"We've found out where the Triskellion is," he whispered in her ear. Sophia supressed a gasp. The Triskellion?! This was the key to the tomb of Ashkanar, rumoured to hold the last remaining dragon's egg. Elation, fear and curiosity swept through Sophia in rapid succession, before she focused in on what Ayre was saying.

"We believe the last part of the Triskellion is in the vaults in Camelot," she announced dramatically, looking around to see the effect she had created. "Therefore, we need a group of volunteers to rescue it, and finally free the poor creature which has been trapped for so many centuries. However, this is not a task to be undertaken lightly! It will be very dangerous. It is likely that some of you might die," she added, her voice reluctant and quiet.

Sophia barely noticed herself step forwards, Nor, she suspected, did the other nine volunteers. It was natural, as easy as blinking. How could she not go? She had no family - all oof her relatives had died of natural causes before she was 10: Druids did not live long. She would try to free this creature, or die trying.

"Thankyou," said Ayre, smiling peacefully. "I will accompany you, naturally. We ride for Camelot in six days time!"

Arthur was confused. This wasn't a problem he usually had. He was fascinated by the Lady Rebecca... but it seemed that she wasn't so enamoured by him. She talked to him - her conversation was lively and interesting. She accepted his invitations - they had gone for a picnic by the river that morning. But he detected an underlying unease when she talked to him that he couldn't see when she was with anybody else. When she looked at him, her gaze lacked the warmth that she bestowed on other people, and the only time she had smiled at him was when he mety her for the first time. He wasn't used to this.

Being the king's son, a skilful warrior, and a total hunk, Arthur had never found it hard to get girls. Hell, even Morgana was attracted to him and she was a soulless, stuck-up cow at the best of times (although Arthur suspected there was something going on between her and Sir Leon). But now, when Arthur wanted to get a certain girl, she didn't respond to him. Surely she had noticed all the attention he was giving her over the past few days? Wasn't she impressed by or attracted to him at all? Sighing, Arthur leaned back against the wall, his brow furrowed in thought, and remembered the mermerising way that Rebecca's hips moved when the walked.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Rebecca was neatly folding the gown she had worn that day to place in the trunk at the bottom of her bed. It was a delicate gold colour, with pearls down the intricate bodice and a full skirt, and she stroked her fingers over the fabric as she put it away. Then she stood in front of her closet in her white corset with her hands on her hips, deciding what to wear to dinner with Arthur, Morgana and the King, and trying not to think about how darned attractive Arthur was. However, before she could even start thinking about it, she was startled by the door being thrown back and smashing into the wall behind it. There in the doorway was Arthur Pendragon himself, with a crooked smile on his features.

_Speak of the devil, _she thought randomly, before realising three things: First, the fittest boy she knew was standing in her room. Second, he hadn't knocked. Third, she was wearing nothing but her underwear. With an expression of dawning horror on her face, she uttered an ear-splitting shriek of humiliation, and snatched up the nearest thing she could find to cover herself - which happened to be a sea green dress with a sapphire-coloured sash. Clutching it to herself desperately, she backed away from the boy in the doorway, who was still smirking.

"I came up to ask if you needed anything, but you seem to be busy," he leered, coming a few meters into the room. For a few seconds, Rebecca simply gaped at him, outraged, but finally she found her voice (why did this boy render her incapable of coherent thought for embarrassing lengths of time?!).

"I can't believe you have the nerve to come in here and say that!" She snapped, holding the dress to her with one hand whilst jabbing a finger at Arthur with the other. His smile quickly became a bemused frown, and he held up his hands placatingly.

"I-"

"I this! I that! Isn't it time you took an interest in something outside of your own little world? The one where everybody thinks the sun shines out of your armpits? You know what, I think it's about time you stopped being so damn arrogant."

Arthur was looking at her like he'd never seen her before. then he spoke, and his voice was quieter than usual.

"Okay. Is there anything else you want to tell me?" he said softly, obiously intending to calm Rebecca down. However, this only served to make her angier. How could he be so blind to his own shortcomings?

"Yes. Yes, there are a lot of other things I want to tell you. I want to tell you that you are presumptuous, unchivalrous, insensitive, cruel, violent, pigheaded and rude! But I can't, because I would be stuck in an even worse position than I am now. Did you know that my father wants me to marry you? Nothing makes me more sick than thinking of that, Arthur Pendragon. But even if I do have to _marry_ you," she sneered in disgust, "I can't stand you, and I can't believe that you can't see that."

Arthur had turned pale, a stark contrast to his usually tanned skin-tone, and he was staring intently at the floor. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and strode out of the door, his scarlet cape (did he never take that thing off?) billowing behind him in the breeze created by his movement.

Rebecca stood, alone, in the middle of the room, her bare feet cold against the flagstones. she was breathing heavily, and couldn't quite believe what she had just done. She had never spoken like that to anybody before, even her own brother, whom she fought with almost every day: Something about Arthur just... she groaned in frustration.

"My lady? Do you need any help?" A warm, anxious voice drifted into the room, and Gwen, the maidservant who had been assigned to her for the duration of her stay, came tentatively in, her silken slippers making a relaxing swishing sound on the stone floor. Rebecca had hit it off with Gewn immediately - she had all the qualities she most admired in a person, and she reminded her of her best friend at home, Hazel.

"No, thankyou, Gwen," she replied, trying to keep her voice even, polite, and unremarkable. "But I'm not very hungry today. I think I'll miss dinner and take some fresh air - I feel a bit light headed. Could you make my apologies to the King?" Rebecca said all this out of courtesy - no way was she going to endure sitting opposite Arthur making small talk for an hour when she had just insulted him wearing nothing but a corset. Sighing, she turned around to let Gwen lace up the golden dress again, and then almost ran out of the castle and into the courtyard beneath.

Standing by one of the arrow slots in the courtyard walls, Rebecca peeked through. Beyond the rough granite, she could see the woods which she had gone riding in with Arthur, and then rolling hills and uninterrupted countryside. Camelot certainly was a beautiful place, she thought, but she was pulled out of her dreamy state my a man's voice behind her.

"You shouldn't be out here at this time, ma'am."

Rebecca whirled around, startled, her arms flying up instinctively to protect her face. However, one was caught prematurely by a strong, gloved hand, which captured her fingers and held them.

The man was about two inches taller than her, so she could easily look into his eyes - they were the colour of mahogany and had an irrestistible warmth and intensity. He had jaw length hair, and marked, distinctive features... she liked that. From his shining armour and increasingly familiar scarlet cape, she gathered that this was a knight, on duty guarding the castle.

As he recognised her, his eyebrows lifted in mild surprise, but he didn't falter at all.

"The Lady Rebecca! How unexpected. My name is Sir Gwaine... and I am delighted to make your aquaintance."

Bending his head over her captive hand, he brushed her skin lightly with his lips, gazing into her eyes all the while. She felt a shiver go down her spine, a faint blush graced her cheeks, and her hand tingled where he had touched her. _Wow._

Sophia was lying on her back under the stars. The weather was stifling, and it was too hot to stay in her tent, so she had recently taken to sleeping outside to cool off. However, tonight, even this didn't help, because she couldn't stop thinking about _him_. The way his hair always stuck up at the back. The way he looked when she agreed to meet him by the hawthorn bush for the first time. The way he had left her without so much as a goodbye. Tossing and turning under her rough woollen blanket, Sophias remembered the boy she had given her heart to, and hated him.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

The sun was high over Camelot, and the knights had just been released from their morning training session early due to a matter of state which Arthur had to deal with. Flushed and exhausted, Sir Mordred wrenched off his cape, breaking the ties yet again - unlike most of the other men, Mordred didn't see the point of wearing a cape: They were stiflingly hot, and got in the way of you were using a sword, his preferred choice of weapon. Pulling off his leather gloves as well, he leaned against the wall and tilted his face upwards, closing his emerald green eyes against the dazzling sunlight. Then, his thoughts drifted irresistibly, as they always did when he wasn't doing anything, to Sophia.

He remembered that afternoon by the lake in the cool dappled shade, the best in his entire life. The afternoon when he had only just stopped himself from kissing the girl whom he had loved from the moment he set eyes on her. He had been so close to her that day. He recalled the jolt in his stomach that he always felt when she looked at him, the delicate beauty of her face branded indelibly into his memory, and the way she always had a witty remark ready to counter what he said. He raised his hand slightly, trying to bring back the feeling of her silken ebony hair against his fingers.

Sometimes, he thought about going back to her without a moment's delay. God, he wanted that more than anything in the world. He imagined her running towards him through the forest, flinging herself into his arms and... He sighed in longing and frustration, trying to focus on the reasons he had to stay in Camelot: He was tired of persecution, he needed a way to earn a living, and, he reminded himself with a twinge of agony, he wasn't good enough for Sophia. She deserved somebody better, who could protect her and who was worthy of her.

Feeling slightly calmer, Mordred opened his eyes to see the Lady Rebecca, who was sat on a small stone bench talking animatedly to Sir Gwaine with a cheeky smile on her pretty face. Mordred narrowed his eyes slightly in suspicion and concern; Gwaine had a reputation for being a womanizer and a ladies' man, and seeing him talking to the princess worried Mordred: She was naive and beautiful, a dangerous combination. Moving stealthily closer, he listened in on their conversation.

"-and so here I am. But what about you? You seem much more interesting than me," Rebecca was saying.

"Me? There's not much to tell. I'm not a noble like most of the other knights here, though. I come from a village on the Border near Cenred's kingdom, and I met Arthur when he came to help us get rid of a group of bandits. The bandits took my wife and children," he added more quietly. He stared hard at the ground, seeming to swallow hard before speaking again, and Mordred raised his eyebrows in surprise and compassion: He had never known that before, and he suddenly felt ashamed of himself that he had never cared enough to ask. "I had nothing left to stay in my village for," continued Gwaine, "so I came here. Before, I never really wanted anything to do with the monarchy - I thought they were all tyrants. When I met Arthur though, I decided that maybe some of them, at least, were worth dying for."

"Really?" Asked Rebecca, and for the first time she seemed uncomfortable and perplexed. "_Arthur_ made you decide that?"

Gwaine laughed. "I see he hasn't made such a favourable impression on you," he said, chuckling at the incredulous expression on her features. "He isn't so bad, really, when you get past the big-headedness - he really cares about his people. Just last month, he faced a flogging because he wouldn't carry out the King's orders to collect more taxes from the citizens of Camelot: He said they were already stretched to breaking point."

Rebecca didn't speak. Gwaine looked curiously at her, but carried on, gazing into the distance where the stone turrets of the citadel met the azure blue aky.

"He's not a hyprocrite, either, the prince. He would never ask us to something he wouldn't do, and he leads every mission himself so nobody will get hurt instead. And he's fair enough. Uther won't tolerate us breathing, but Arthur is more reasonable."

Finally, Rebecca said that she'd never expected that Arthur would have such a different flipside to him.

"He seemed the opposite to me," she admitted. "I'm glad you told me that. I-"

Mordred tuned out. Gwaine seemed to be ok at the moment; more than ok, in fact. The way he looked at Rebecca was very different to the way he looked at most other women - more intense, with more depth in his eyes. He sat with his legs and torso towards her, giving her his full attention as she talked, and his leather gloved hand was very close to hers, which was resting daintily on the stone arm of the bench. Mordred had never seen Gwaine behave like that. Usually, when he was in the tavern with a girl (or seven), he was overconfident, bragging, shallow... all the qualities that Mordred disliked in a person. Smiling slightly with the corner of his mouth, he turned away and headed into the shade of the castle, where dinner would be waiting for him.

Sophia woke with a jolt. It was the third day after Ayre's announcement about the Triskellion, but she couldn't bring herself to care - she had just dreamed about... _him_. This time, she had relived the day before he left, her mind remembering it in clear, agonising detail.

_As she walked out of her tent, he had grabbed her, his arm snaking around her waist and puling her to him with the strength she found so seductive. He had buried his face in her hair, his laugh close to her ear, and she looked up to find him grinning at her._

_"Just give me a minute to restart my heart," she joked, although it came out sounding a little more resentful than she had intended._

_"Don't be like that... I brought you a present," he smiled, and produced a stunning bunch of flowers from behind his back, which Sophia was fairly sure he had just conjured from thin air using magic. They were a beautiful, deep purple, with pure white centres, and somehow they reminded her of him._

_"You shouldn't have," she murmured, biting her lip as she took them from him, and she could have sworn she heard Mordred take a deep, shuddering breath. Puzzled, she looked up at him, and he shrugged, unabashed._

_"You're too gorgeous when you do that," he told her. He spoke lightly, but his eyes were serious and full of something Sophia didn't recognise, but made her heart clench in her chest and flutter like a trapped bird. Suddenly, he broke the connection and looked away, before a distant look came over him and he said he had to leave._

_"I promised Ayre I'd do the morning patrol," he told her. "I'll see you later."_

_He never did._

Sophia dragged herself of the tent this morning, and with the memory of that morning still in her mind, the action was almost unbearable considering that she was definitely not a morning person. However, she had been asked to collect herbs for the healers, so staying in bed for another hour or two was out of the question - the healers' work was vital and well respected within the camp: It was an honour, really, to be chosen to help. With a sigh, she grabbed her small, hand-woven bag off the jagged stick at her tent entance, and headed out into the undergrowth to find some Chamomile.

Arthur had been thinking about what Rebecca had told him. Was he really such a monster? He hadn't believed it at first - he had been so blinded by anger that he had skipped dinner altogether despite his after-training hunger pangs, and gone for a much needed solitary walk in the Darkling Woods to cool off. When he had calmed down however, the truth of her words had filtered into his mind, and he was left feeling confused and regretful. Now he was sitting alone on a low wall leading into the courtyard, wallowing in his thoughts, but he was pulled from his reverie by a commotion at the gates.

"I'm sorry ma'am. I can't let you in," a guard was insisting. 'Ma'am', Arthur saw, was an old woman, who was crying silently and grabbing the guard's arm as hard as she could to hold herself upright; she looked as though she was on the verge of collapse.

"Please," she begged: Her frail voice was no more than a whisper. "Please."

"I-" began the guard, but he was cut off by Arthur, who had stormed forward.

"What's going on here?" He demanded, frowning. He had seen enough that he already knew, but he felt he should clarify. The guard instantly stood up straighter and looked nervous.

"This woman is attempting to seek an audience with the king, sire," the guard said, his voice much more hesitant now.

"Then let her in, man, what are you waiting for?" Arthur's voice was a little sharper than he's meant for it to be, and the man looked scared.

"Well, you see, sire, the King said he wasn't seeing anybody this afternoon, and he gave explicit orders not to be disturbed. I thought-" He trailed off when he saw Arthur's expression.

"You thought you'd turn away an innocent old woman who obviously needs help? Come on, my lady," he told the old woman, using the highest form of address in Camelot and offering her his arm, which she leaned against gratefully. Slowly, he helped her through the gates, past a crowd of people who had gathed to watch, and no doubt gossip, and into the main courtyard, where he took her straight to Gaius, the Court Physician. "I'll see to it that you talk to the king as soon as you are well," he promised the old woman, and with that he left her, involuntarily looking up at the casement of Rebecca's chambers as he crossed the cobbled yard.

To his embarrassment, she was standing there, watching him. He tried not to think about the way his heart was suddenly beating a little bit faster. However, there was something different between the way she was looking at him now and the way she usually looked at him. Today, her gaze was... warmer. More forgiving. Less severe. It was, he thought dozily, like sinking into a hot bath after a cold, hard day. Suddenly, she smiled, and mouthed something. It looked like _'sorry'._


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Mordred was trailing behind the others, dragging his feet and staring at the floor, earning him irritated glances from Arthur: Him and some other knights were patrolling the forest, searching for a group of bandits who the King was worried about. Most of the men would have jumped at the chance to escape training for an afternoon, but not Mordred: This forest only served to remind him of what he had left to come to Camelot.

It was quiet in the woods; unnaturally quiet. The kind of the quiet that crashes in your ears like a thunderstorm, suffocating you with pressure, yet making you feel more alone than you have ever been. The tall conifers around Mordred shut out the light: It could have been midnight, if it wasn't for the glimmer of sunshine that was visible beyond the trees if he glanced back. The ground was littered with pine needles, carpeting the dust underfoot, and the smell of damp earth pervaded everything - with no sunlight, nothing could ever dry out.

Suddenly, a sharp crack split the silence like a knife, and all the knights froze as one, Mordred included. His hand curled around the hilt of his sword, and he saw Arthur quietly draw Excalibur from the jewelled scabbard at his belt. The other three, Percival, Elyon and Lancelot, tensed. A bird that Mordred has not noticed before twittered and flew upwards into the branches above, and for a moment, all was still. And then, action exploded like fire around the knights.

_Bandits._ That was the only word Mordred could think before he was assailed by four rough-looking, muscular men, who knocked him to the floor as they ran down the sides of the valley towards him. Immediately, Mordred spang to his feet, drawing his blade and still having time to marvel at the lethal gleam of the metal in the near darkness before throwing himself towards them.

Sophia crouched behind the tree, holding her breath, staring with wide eyes at the fight scene unfolding on the path around ten metres below her. Five Knights of Camelot versus approximately twenty bandits, she thought wryly, although she was much to scared to laugh at the idea. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to identify the knights: She knew several of them by sight from the raids on the Druid camps and patrols of the forest. She easily recognised Prince Arthur - he was blond, making him distinguishable, and was by far one of the best fighters. She could also see that huge man who had fought her last time the Druids had a run in with the knights. She didn't know his name, but his arms, and his apparent refusal to wear sleeves, made him stick out a mile to her. And- Sophia's heart skipped a beat, then picked up pounding twice as fast. Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her view, but just this once, she was grateful, because she didn't want to watch anymore. However, she couldn't look away - she was frozen, and she had to watch as he fought them, his cloak twisting and swirling behind him.

_Mordred_, she realised, as her breath hitched in her throat.

Four of the bandits were closing in on him, and although he was on his feet, he was surrounded. Suddenly, with a whirl of movement that Sophia couldn't follow, he had appeared at the end of the semicircle of men around him, facing them so he could fight them one at a time. Without giving them time to respond, he slashed to the left with his sword, dim light glinting on the honed and bevelled edges as the first man collapsed, seemingly unconcious, at his feet, and Mordred's fist connected with the side of the second bandit's head, causing the man's feet to give way and he fell to the ground. Now it was two against one, and the remaining pair circled Mordred threateningly, backing him against a solid-looking tree. Mordred brought up his sword to clash against the weapon of one of the bandits. The metal screeched horribly, and Sophia cringed, but before she could recover, a scream of agony shattered the air and wrenched her eyes wide open in horror; the other bandit fighting Mordred had made an upwards movement with his dagger, and there was now a deep, scarlet wound stretching the length of his upper arm, sending him to the ground in front of the two other men, both of whom were grinning manically and leering at him. Sophia gasped, involuntarily drawing blood as she bit her lip, but Mordred, his face contorted against the pain, brought his sword round to one of the men's legs, knocking him flat and bleeding badly. At last, it was one on one, and despite the injury to his arm, Mordred seemed more confident now, and after a few more moments of furious sparring, the fourth bandit was on the ground, face down, not moving. Sophia watched just long enough after that to see Mordred throw himself into the fray again to help the other knights, before she turned away and leaned against the tree that was her hiding place.

Her eyes closed, her hand gripping the herbs she was meant to be gathering, and she was breathing heavily, as though it had been her who was fighting, although the struggle was over now. Seeing him there had brought back memories of when they had fought side by side, and Sophia's lips twitched as she remembered how he had always been so protective of her in a battle - as if she needed it. shaking her head to clear it, she peeked out from behind the tree trunk and spotted the plant she had been looking for all morning. Well, for an hour or so. However, there was a problem: It was several metres below her, and fetching it would mean getting closer to the knights, including... him..., and risking capture. Not getting it would earn her a week on guard duty and could cost somebody's life, as she was collecting the plants for the healers.

Slowly, so slowly she thought she wasn't moving at all, Sophia edged forwards, her arm stretched out to grasp the little purple-flowered plant. Finally, her fingers wrapped around it and she tugged it. Just as she was retreating, though, a twig snapped beneath her leather boots, and Mordred, who had been born and raised in the forest as a tracker/warrior, turned and looked up instantly... straight into her horrified eyes.

Mordred was convinced he was having what had to be the best and worst dream of his life. The best because _she _was here, looking at him, close enough to reach out and touch. The worst because he couldn't go to her, nomatter how much he wanted her in his arms. The worst because she was inches from certain death: All it took for her to be discovered was for Arthur or one of the others to glance her way. The worst because he, as a Knight, was expected to turn her in, or slay her on the spot, or torture her. The worst because the fear and anguish in her eyes tore him up inside, and the realisation that he loved her swept over him again, more painful than the stinging ache in his arm, sweeter than the purest sunshine.

He didn't know how long he sat there, staring at her, but at last, she broke the connection, and, as silently as an owl, she sprinted back up the side of the valley and out of sight, leaving Mordred confused and frustrated.

Rebecca's laugh echoed around the battlements, reminding Arthur of the sound of silver wind chimes. She had come up here in the hope of finding him to apologise for what she said, but Arthur wouldn't hear of it. It was his fault, he told her, and he had treated her abominably. Now, it was like he was a different person.

Rebecca's opinion of Arthur had started changing when she heard what Gwaine thought of him, and when she saw him escort that poor little old woman across the courtyard like she was a lady. Now, with him entertaining her, she was convinced that he was really a decent person, despite his shortcomings. To her relief, he seemed to think of their... disagreement... as nothing but a joke.

"What are you up to tomorrow, then?" she had asked him seriously, only to be met with a cheeky smile.

"We could try knocking each other off of horses," he had replied, a laugh bubbling under his words, although his face was straight.

"Did that last week with Edward," she said with mock regret, although she was less successful in keeping the smile off her face than he was.

"How about throwing ourselves to the bandits?"

"The knights have worn that one out."

"I'll think of something," he promised, winking. In the back of her mind, Rebecca wondered why she didn't find that arrogant or presumptious anymore.

"I look forward to it," she fired back, smirking.

Shortly after that, she had to leave, but his voice and face stayed in her mind for a long time afterwards. That night was the first night Rebecca dreamed of Arthur Pendragon.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Rebecca woke with a jolt, struggling upright in bed, only to find her legs were entangled in the smooth linen sheets. Her dream had been so _real._ She rubbed her eyes, trying to remember, and it swept over her again, warming her from the tips of her toes to her face, which flushed with embarrassment.

_She was up on the battlements, like the two of them had been that afternoon, and it was night-time, which made sense, somehow. He was leaning against the stone wall, resting on his elbow, and she felt a tingling shiver run up her spine like a trail of ice as he looked her up and down, his leonine body relaxed and inviting. She walked over to him, and looked into his eyes. They were a soft, swirling hazel, reminding rebecca of chocolate and red wine and seduction... She leaned closer, drowning in the beautiful cacophony of dazzling colour, and as she did, her lips met his,and she let her eyelids close as irrepressible waves of happiness swept over her. His mouth was soft and deliciously tempting, and knew exactly how to move with hers as she pressed herself closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck as he lifted her delicate frame off the ground to embrace her more easily. She breathed in the scent of him, a heady combination of shells, sunshine and sea lavender. One of his hands ran down her back and rested on her waist, and she relaxed into him, feeling him respond to her as the kiss intensified. Deepened. Then his fingers travelled up slowly as his lips moved down to her neck, singeing a path towards her shoulder. Her head fell back, the wind on the battlements twisting into her hair and twisting it into wild, dishevelled waves. Her hands found his chest, revelling in the firm muscles beneath, and her heart raced, adrenaline pulsing through her in an irregular rhythm which left her powerless. He groaned, and the sound of his need skimmed lightly over skin like a fiery shadow, heating her all over and burning deep inside her..._

_Damn you,Arthur Pendragon, _Rebecca thought, falling back on the bed with a blissful smile on her features. She had untangled herself by now, and she lay on the matress in her white nightgown, covers kicked to one side and her auburn hair formed a halo on the pillow and framed her face as she gazed up into the canopy of her four-poster bed. She didn't know how long she lay there. Eventually, she sat up again and quietly got out of bed, her toes curling as they hit the stone-cold floor, and padded over to the casement, where moonlight was flooding her chambers with silken, silver light. She stood by the window, her fingers ightly resting on the stone ledge at the bottom, and looked out over the courtyard to the rooms opposite. The glass there was dark and she could see herself reflected dimly in the glass, jumbled up with the cobbled stone floor of the yard and the rooms behind the windows.

In one of the windows, though, there was something... or someone... else.

Arthur couldn't sleep. After four hours - _four hours -_ of tossing andturning, he had given up trying, and now he was standing by his window, leaning against the glass, thinking about the way Princess Rebecca's hair shone in the late-afternoon sunlight. Suddenly, a gleam of auburn from across the quad made him blink. _Overactive imagination, much,_ he told himself, and peered through the lead lattice on the glass to prove that he was seeing things, convinced that the flash of red and gold was just the product of exhaustion and an overworked mind. Looking out though, he saw that he was wrong.

She was perched on the stone windowsill, with one foot on the floor to support her. Her hair was loose and tousled, tumbling down her back to her hips; Arthur imagined himself running his fingers through it. Most importantly, though, she was looking right at him.

Arthur immediately felt mortified, euphoric and nervous at the same time. She'd seen him looking out his window at her like a character in some cliched fairy tale. Jeez. He'd have to think of an explanation before morning.

_"MERLIN!"_

Merlin opened his eyes, wincing at the echoing voice inside his head. He could sense the dragon's amusement at having woken him, and he also knew what it wanted. It wanted to be set free.

Once again, Merlin mentally kicked himself at having made the deal with Kilgarrah. A deal which was based on his mother's life. The excuse 'it was necessary' didn't really seem to apply anymore, and the Great Dragon was getting impatient. But he was still very reluctant to let it go, because being imprisoned since the Great Purge had left it vengeful and spiteful towards Uther. And if Uther was attacked, Arthur would fight for him, and although the Prince was good, he was no match for a dragon: He would be killed, and Merlin's destiny would be obsolete. Passe.

_"MERLIN!"_

Kilgarrah's rumbling tones ricocheted around Merlin's skull again, and he knew that he'd have to answer.

_"Yes?_ "

_"You made a promise, young warlock."_

The dragon was smug and self-assured, but Merlin could also hear a streak of irritation which would have been disguised if they were speaking in person, but was all too apparent using this method of communicating.

_"I'm coming."_

Merlin jumped off his bed and crouched by the loose floorboard by his cabinet. The one where he kept all his spellbooks, and more recently, the sword of one of the Knights of Madeir, wrapped a black velvet cloth. It was the Great Dragon's only hope of freedom. As though he were in a trance, Merlin withdrew the sword, which was almost as long as his arm, from the hiding place, and tucked it under his arm, still tightly wrapped and disguised, creeping from the room and shutting the door with a soft _snick._ He took off his boots and held them by the laces as he tiptoed past the sleeping Gaius, until he reached the street outside, which was strewn with hay and mud at the edges and was worn and smooth in the middle. Turning left, he entered the narrow side door leading to the Palace cellars, and then took an abrupt turning down a wide, gently sloping staircase which led to Kilgarrah's cave. He was not at all surprised to find the dragon awake and waiting for him.

"Well," he mused. In real life, the Great Dragon's voice was extremely loud, and it reverberated around the cavern like a thunderclap, but Merlin knew better than to flinch away. "Have you come to fulfil your promise?"

Merlin paused, and the silence was even louder than the dragon's voice. It screamed of hesitancy, of mistrust, and of weakness. His reluctance swarmed within him. His mother's life, or Arthur's and his own destiny? His mother's face shimmered before him, full of sympathy and compassion, and although Merlin only saw her once every few years or so, he knew he loved her more than anyone - well, except Freya, perhaps. something strengthened inside of him, and a defiant little voice inside him held him to his oath. He had to free the dragon.

"I will not be known as a man who breaks his word," Merlin replied, and the dragon's serpentine lips curved upwards in a cruel parody of a smile. Without saying anything else, Merlin walked slowly to the set of crude stone steps which led deeper into the cavern and to the chain keeping Kilgarrah enslaved.

Finally, he saw it. It was at least as thick as his torso, a gargantuan structure which must have taken decades to forge. It was crusted with red rust, and the links scraped against each other with a noise that set Merlin's teeth on edge. Looking at the slender sword he now held in his hands, Merlin speculated - or, rather, hoped - that it would not work. and with that hope in his mind, he raised the sword and brought it crashing down over the chain.

The blade cut through the iron like a knife through butter, and the dragon gave a jubilant, eardrum-shattering scream of triumph which almost knocked Merlin to the ground woth the force behind it. And, with a single beat of its massive wings, the dragon took off into the night sky above.

Kilgarrah inhaled, revelling in the feeling of the wind in his lungs and beneath his wings, and feeling the darkness wrap around him like a cloak. As he flew, he plotted his next actions, and how to take revenge. From Merlin, he knew two things: The person Uther cared for most was Prince Arthur. And Prince Arthur was completely obsessed with the Lady Rebecca. Hmmmm...


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rebecca opened her eyes to blinding golden sunlight streaming through the window onto her face. That was the first thing she noticed, followed by the fact that she was extremely uncomfortable. She looked around confusedly, her forehead creased in a frown, until she remembered the exact events which had caused her to go to sleep on the granite window-seat, with her head against the glass, for all of Camelot to see her. _Damn you, Arthur Pendragon_. The thought flitted across her mind for the second time in six hours. Her legs had cramp, she had a splitting headache from the sun, and it was all his fault, somehow.

"My lady?" Gwen, her handmaid, was standing in the doorway, one hand on each side, with a pile of freshly laundered sheets by her feet.

"Good morning Gwen."

"Er... Are you alright?" Gwen asked, her voice tinted with concern. Rebecca picked it up, feeling a rush of affection for her maid and embarrassment at herself - what must she look like?

"I'm fine," Rebecca lied, wincing as her head throbbed. "Can you quickly help me get ready? I'd like to go riding in the woods this morning."

"Are you sure that's wise, my lady? There have been a lot of reports of..." Gwen trailed off as Rebecca raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

"Don't worry, Gwen. I'm more than capable of looking after myself. Besides, I really need to think."

Two hours later, Rebecca had just ridden out of the Lower Town, escaping the city via the eastern gates. In front of her was a rolling valley, stretching all the way to the purple horizon until it met the clouds. For a moment, she just stayed there, closing her eyes slightly as the wind whipped her dress behind her, making snapping sounds as it tugged at the fabric. Then, after what she thought could have been hours, or days, or years, she clicked her tongue at her horse and trotted north, away from the valley and into the woods.

The silence in the forest rung in the princess' ears as the trees folded into the darkness around her, welcoming her into their realm. The sky was just visible through the leaves, a pure, cerulean blue which somehow could not filter through to the forest floor. Shivering from a sensation that had more to do with the atmosphere than the cold, Rebecca slid off her horse and walked slowly to the mare's nose, stroking her gently and watching the animal snort slightly and rub against her. Then she slumped down on a log, and began to think. How did she feel about Arthur?

After an hour of sitting on the log, she sprang to her feet and began to pace, gritting her teeth in frustration. Ten minutes after that, she sat down again, and had just buried her head in her hands when a hoarse, grating cry made her head snap up to the sky in response. Just visible through the leaves against the blue sky was a dark, aquiline shape, getting bigger and bigger as it approached. The wingspan was massive even from a distance - Rebecca guessed around 20 feet - and from head to tail it measured at least 40. But Rebecca didn't have time to process much more than that... because it was coming straight for her.

Sophia swore as she fell headlong over another rock. She was certain somebody placed them on the forest floor deliberately just to make her angry. She was walking a short distance away from the others - she didn't want their company, it hurt too much. It reminded her of when Mordred would walk next to her on these missions, telling her jokes as his eyes sparkled with humor while everybody else coughed loudly and made jokes about how they couldn't wait for the handfasting. She got embarrassed when they did that, but he had just laughed and taken her hand as if they were already bonded. His indifference to to what others thought was just another thing she loved about him. Correction: She used to love about him.

Tears swam in her eyes, blurring her vision and bringing her perilously close to tripping over another boulder. _Pull it together, dammit._ She walked a little faster, twigs crunching under her feet as she concentrated on her mission. _Think, Soph. Triskellion. Dragon's egg. Focus._

Arthur was sat in a meeting with his father, several knights, and Lord Falknor. He wasn't entirely sure what it was about, and his throne was digging into the small of his back - whoever had carved it was obviously the most inconsiderate man in Camelot. The boredom and discomfort weren't exactly conducive to concentration, and he felt his thoughts slipping further and further away from the courtroom and closer to the Lady Rebecca. He hadn't seen her today, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to: He would never know what to say in the light of last night's events. Remembering her hair in the moonlight, Arthur involuntarily sat up a little straighter, swallowing nervously and trying to drag his thoughts back to the matter in hand (although he still wasn't quite certain what that was).

His attention span lasted all of five minutes before he felt himself sliding into a torpid stupor again as the councillors droned on. Just as he was sure he was going to sleep, the door of the throne room was thrown back so violently it probably caused a tsunami in France, and the hinges shrieked in metallic agony as they were wrenched past their limits. In the doorway stood Sir Gwaine, breathing heavily and his hair disheveled. He was still clutching his sword, which was unheard of - swords were only used outdoors, making Arthur think he had probably come inside in a hurry.

"My lords-" he panted, clutching at his side, "the Great Dragon has kidnapped the Lady Rebecca. She was riding alone in the Darkling Woods, and I saw her on the path on my way back from the tavern. She was looking at the sky and began to run, and I wondered why, so I galloped towards her to help, when the dragon flew down and snatched her up. He saw me though. He told me that he won't harm her as long as Camelot pays him the ransom of a piece of the Triskellion, a key to the Tomb of Ashkanar. He said we have a week to pay it... or the bit about not harming her will be revoked."

A momentary stunned silence in the room was followed by a tumultuous chaos that involved everybody talking over each other at the same time as Uther sat in shock on his throne, resting his head on his wrist. Arthur knew what his father was thinking - it was what _he_ was supposed to think of: The impacts of her kidnap, what would happen if the ransom price was paid, what her father would say and whether he would declare war on Camelot. But all he could think was that he had lost her. She would never know that he cared about her, she wouldn't smile at him again with the grin that had lit up the court for days now. He would never secretly watch her walk across the courtyard again from his window, eyes devouring the sight of her dainty frame and the grace with which she moved. He was going to lose her... unless his father agreed to the ransom. Finally, the king spoke.

"We cannot surrender the Triskellion," he announced. "The loss of the Lady Rebecca is tragic, but if the Triskellion is made whole we risk the return of dragons to this kingdom. The life of one girl is a small price to pay for the greater good."

Arthur couldn't believe his ears. Jumping to his feet, which attracted the attention of all the councillors, he said what had to be simultaneously the bravest and most stupid thing he'd said to his father since the 'Queen Catrina's taxes' incident.

"But - father! If we do not keep Rebecca safe, King Cartha will declare war on us and we don't currently have the resources to go to war! Besides, the Triskellion has three parts, and all of them are needed to unlock the tomb and release the dragon egg. There's no guaruntee the dragon has any other parts!"

"But he might! That is something we cannot risk! If we have a section of the Triskellion, it is certain that the tomb is locked and the kingdom is safe. Without it, we are blind and one step back in the war against magic! Our resources are strong enough to hold out during a war until supplies arrive from the outlying villages."

"No! We can't let an innocent girl die! This is just like you. You're so focused on the bigger picture that the details just get left out. She has a life! She has hopes, and dreams, and a future-"

"Silence! I'm your king and I won't be talked to that way! Leave me! Don't come near me again until you're ready to apologise and recognise that I am wiser, and know what is best for this kingdom!"

Arthur didn't reply - he was too angry to speak. How dare his father talk to him like that in front of all those people? He was wise enough to know that what his father was doing was paranoid and wrong... and that he, Arthur Pendragon, was going to do what his heart knew was right.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

The gate to the treasury squeaked slightly as it swung back, revealing Prince Arthur, half hidden by the flickering tendrils of shadow cast by the torches. Behind him lay two guards, knocked unconcious and splayed into awkward positions thanks to Arthur's fighting skills. The entrace opened out into a yawning cavern where everywhere you looked, the gleam of gold shone dully, ensnaring the mind and hypnotising the senses with the promise of wealth. Looking past the dazzling array of treasure, the prince strode purposefully into the room and began to search.

About forty minutes later, he was back where he started. Well, _damn._ He turned resignedly around to check somewhere else, but as he did, a small silver box by the door caught his eye. The last box he hadn't checked. _It won't hurt to check_, he told himself, and suddenly knew that the piece of Triskellion would be there - that was just typical, wasn't it? He gingerly lifted the lid, his heart pounding... then let out his breath in a huff, as he stared at the contents of the box.

Money.

Running his hands through his hair in frustration, he turned back to the door again, and walked out, as the glint of metal winked in his peripheral vision. Automatically, his eyes followed it... and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. How could he have missed that? The piece of Triskellion was perched on the edge of a shelf at nose level, its bevelled edges reflecting the dim torchlight along the intricate filigree spirals and twists. It was simultaneously the most alluring and frightening thing Arthur had ever encountered. Faster than he would have thought possible, he snatched it from the shelf, tucked it under his cloak, and sprinted up the stairs to the barracks, where his knights were sleeping.

Mordred inhaled deeply, drinking in the intoxicating night air that made him think of honeysuckle and magic and the expression in Sophia's eyes. Jeez. Why did everything always lead back to Sophia? Here, in the middle of the forest, it was easy to forget that he had broken her heart and betrayed her - he half expected her to burst through the bushes and meet him with her old cheeky grin and a wink. "Hey, Mordred," she would say. "Missed you".

But she never would. He would never see her again, watch her blush when he showed her too much attention, feel the silky smoothness of her skin against his hand, laugh at the way she shivered when he traced his finger along the outline of her perfect lips because he couldn't believe anything could be so _right_.

The knights - Leon, Percival, Gwaine, Elyan, Lancelot and Mordred - moved swiftly through the trees, the leaves rustling around their boots. Arthur was a few feet ahead, his shoulders slightly hunched and a tense, worried expression on his face. Mordred could sympathise - he knew what it was like to be separated from the girl he loved, and the pain threatened to rip him apart as yet another thought path led back to Sophia. The men hadn't hesitated when Arthur had asked them to come with him to save the Lady Rebecca - they all knew that what Uther had ordered was wrong, and would have followed Arthur even if they weren't bound to obey him. Gwaine, especially, seemed particularly involved in the rescue attempt, and the barely disguised worry in his eyes made Mordred wonder if he had been more friendly with Rebecca than it seemed to him that day after training. Sure, Gwaine had looked interested, but...

He was jolted back to reality by a glow through the trees and a sharp snap of a twig, the sound of wood cracking in a fire, then sudden darkness and the muted thuds of feet stamping on ashes. The knights exchanged glances. Silently, they surrounded the now suspiciously quiet cluster of bushes.

Suddenly, the fire, which evidently wasn't properly stamped out, flared in the whispering breeze winding through the trees, illuminating a group of druids standing in defensive positions around the campfire. It also lit up Arthur... who was standing at the front of the group of knights, the piece of Triskellion in his hand.

The druids' reaction to the Triskellion was alarming. Together, they drew their swords: Mordred knew that each one had been made for it's owner, expertly forged and enchanted by sorcerers. He wistfully remembered his own sword, Cupros, and the way it felt in his hand, singing through the air as he fought. In response, the knights drew their own weapons, the air sighing with the whisper of metal on leather; Mordred cringed as he thought of the difference between this lump of metal they called a sword, and Cupros.

As one, the druids attacked. One woman, with long blonde hair in dreadlocks immediately ran at Mordred, a staff in one hand clearly signalling that this was the leader. As she got closer, he felt a twinge of recognition; Ayre. His father had died in battle, his mother in childbirth, and Ayre had cared for him as a baby until he could fend for himself around camp. But now she was coming towards him with a weapon, and he certainly couldn't see any mercy in her eyes. He didn't want to fight her, but before he could move away, she brought her sword down, and he only just had time to parry the blow before she whirled round and made a stab to the side. He jumped out of the way, and she feinted in response before making a sideways cut to his right. He blocked her again, and the sharp blades of the metal grated against each other with the sound of tortured steel, setting Mordred's teeth on edge. Her eyes narrowed and she backed away, bringing her sword in front of her as the deadly dance continued.

Suddenly, Ayre screamed, and tears sprang to her eyes as she lost her hold on her sword. Frowning, Mordred leaned in despite himself, and saw a fresh, angry-looking slash across her calf, which was bare beneath her cut-off leggings. She scrambled backwards, biting her lip against the cold pain, and Mordred scanned the dark behind her for the person who'd done it, expecting to see Leon, or Percival or another of the knights. Instead, he saw...

_Sophia._

His lips mouthed her name, and the fighting arround her stilled into slow motion as she tried to remember how to breathe. Looking at him... it was like he'd never left. His hair was tousled, and he was breathing heavily from the fight, his cheeks flushed. She felt the sword in her hand drop to the ground, Ayre's blood pooling in droplets on the metal. All she wanted to do was go to him; every nerve in her body strained to be with him, and here he was, in front of her. But she couldn't even speak to him: She would be cast out of her Druid clan, he would be de-knighted, or whatever the word was, and they would be outcasts. So, picking up her sword, she turned away, with her conscience screaming in agony as she saw the confused, wounded look on his cherubic face.

As she turned, she came face to face with another knight, his scarlet cape draped casually over his shoulder and his expression relaxed, as if he routinely fought druids round campfires in the dead of night on ransom missions. He had short, dark hair that waved over his forehead and at his temples, and tanned skin with soulful brown eyes like a puppy dog. He was short, but still taller than her - around five foot ten - and stockier than Mordred. His sword was raised, and she shrank back, realising too late that her blade was still where she dropped it on the ground. _Smooth move._ She shut her eyes slightly and waited for the knight to defeat her. Modest in victory, graceful in defeat, she thought as she stood there.

But the strike never came.

"Go."

The man spoke urgently - his voice was quiet but Sophia could still hear it over the clamour of the fight. She just stared at him, stunned. But she couldn't stay frozen for long. Snatching up her sword, she backed away and ran over to where some others from her group were fighting Arthur and a tall, bear-like man with no sleeves and very big muscles. Arthur. The thought of his name drove all other thoughts from Sophia's mind, and replaced them with the Triskellion. Focusing on that, she dove into the melee.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Dawn was breaking, and Mordred was sure that no dawn had ever been more cruel. He stood in the clearing where they had fought, looking around him at the bodies of his former friends - friends who had loved and laughed and trusted. Trusted _him_. He walked slowly over the fallen leaves on the ground, counting the memories. Ayre, his mentor. Her son, Thomas. Thomas had taught him how to shoot, and Mordred remembered how he used to prowl through the forest on feet like velvet. Feet that would never walk again.

Abruptly, he stopped, turning his head up to where the watery morning sunlight was beginning to filter through the dense green above him. He couldn't look anymore. Because he knew that he would see her. Somewhere, she would be lying with her slender body tossed like a rag doll on the horns of a bull, her eyes sightless and glassy, their brilliant green clouded by the filmy veil of death. Tears choked him and he stumbled blindly out of the circle of trees, back to where the knights were camped, all dozing in the early morning sun.

Burying his head in his hands, he slumped by the dying embers of the fire, silent sobs wracking his body, despite his attempts to keep them within himself. Her walk, her smile, the soft mischief in her voice all flooded back to him, and although he thought of them constantly, the images had new meaning now, because he could never hope to see them again. Even when he had left, he had wondered if he would see her again, nomatter how unlikely that possibility was. But now there wasn't even the slightest chance, because he knew she was dead. _Dead_. He hadn't told her that he had loved her from the moment he set eyes on her, when they were both five years old chasing leaves down a stream. He hadn't kissed her when he had the opportunity, he would never know if she felt the same way about him.

Agony ripped though him like a knife twisting in his chest, as he stared with wide, tortured eyes into the flaky white ashes that were the only remains of the fire. Her face was everywhere. For what could have been minutes, or hours, or weeks, he sat there immobile as he drowned in his grief. Grief, and guilt.

He stayed there until a soft rustling sound in the trees to his left made him lift his head and look around him.

Sophia dropped silently down from the tree she'd been sleeping in, wincing as the movement jarred her shoulder, which had been slashed in the fight, leaving a five inch cut. When the battle had ended last night, she had lain on the floor beside her dead friends, trying to look as though she was dead too, and hoping the knights didn't notice the occaisonnal tear that slipped down her cheek from the corner of her eyes. When they left, she had followed them, hoping that she could fetch the Triskellion by tricking them somehow, but the pain in her shoulder had increased until she was forced to stop and rest for a while.

Biting her lip slightly to stop herself from making any sound, she crept forward. She wasn't sure where the knights had made camp, but she was sure they would be asleep after the fight, and that might mean she could steal the Triskellion. Where they were going with it and why, she couldn't be sure, but she suspected Prince Arthur was looking for the other pieces so he could unlock Ashkanar's tomb himself and kill the dragon inside, continuing his father's evil work. Bastard.

Silently, she wound through the forest until she glimpsed a flash of crimson through a gap in the bushes. Crouching, she peered though. A skinny serving boy and all but one of the knights were lying sprawled out unconcious on the ground - Mordred was sat by the remains of a fire, completely still with his head resting on his arms. She watched him for what seemed an age, and he never moved. Probably asleep, she decided, and glided forward again.

Her body, unprepared for the movement after crouching for so long, protested, her shoulder wrenching excruciatingly. She gasped and fell forwards, her hands automatically flashing out in front of her to break her fall. The scuffed through the crispy leaves on the ground, making a slight whisper. She exhaled in relief and straigntened up- nobody would be woken by that. But... It turned out not everybody was asleep in the first place.

Mordred turned his head to one side, his hair tousled from the amount of times he had run his hands through it. His eyes widened when he saw her, drinking in the sight of her, and he rose unsteadily to his feet. He took a few stumbling steps towards her, but she was faster. She forgot about the pain in her shoulder. She forgot her own name. She ran over to him and launched herself into his arms, pressing herself closer to him and gasping as the familiar smell of woodsmoke, moss and water hit her and she finally felt as if she were home. She tilted her head back to look into his eyes but she barely had time to take in their dazzling colour before Mordred finally gave in and kissed her.

Sophia's arms slinked around his neck, gripping his shoulders as he threaded his fingers through her long black hair, making a delicious shiver travel down her spine like a tendril of heat. His other hand supported the small of her back, his fingers slightly apart to absorb as much of her as possible. Patterns made by the sun danced behind her eyelids as she bent her head back, and all thoughts were chased from her mind as his lips moved with hers, softly at first, but then harder. He was everywhere - he was the world, and she knew she was so unbelievably lucky to have him here, with her, kissing her...

When they broke apart, they were both breathing heavily. With one trembling hand, Mordred slowly stroked the length of her cheek. There were tears in his eyes, and Sophia could feel tears tracking down her cheeks as well, though she couldn't remember the exact point at which she'd started crying. They stood there as the sun rose higher in the sky, amd Sophia couldn't remember a time when she'd been happier.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

"I never stopped loving you. Even when I left. You do know that, don't you?"

Sophia and Mordred were on a pebble beach cutting into the crystal brook about half a kilometer from the knights' camp. The water gurgled as it spun around eddies and skipped an octave as it tripped over the stones. Sophia could see her reflection shimmering in the still pools around the tree roots at the edge of the little beach, but it didn't tear her heart apart the way she was expecting. The sun shone brightly above them, she didn't care - they could have been in a thunderstorm and she would still have felt warm as long as Mordred was there.

"Sophia?" He gently reminded her. She looked up into his face, but she didn't answer, marvelling instead at the tiny clear droplets of water suspended in his long lashes and the vivid, swirling green of his eyes. Mistaking her silence for doubt, he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, making her feel tiny and delicate and feminine. She leaned her head back on his shoulder, and shivered when he whispered close to her ear.

"I wanted to take you with me, but I knew you'd never come. But I have thought about you every second since I left, I swear. Thought about this," he murmured, placing feather-light kisses down the side of her neck, "and this," he breathed, spinning her around and lowering his mouth to hers. The sudden movement wrenched her shoulder again, though, and she gasped through gritted teeth.

His face was instantly alight with blazing concern.

"Soph? Are you alright?"

"It's nothing," she assured him, bringing her hand up to her shoulder to try and disperse the pain. She reached up to kiss him to take both their minds off it, but he stopped her and caught her face with one hand, cupping her cheek and staring seriously into her eyes.

"It's not nothing. Let me see." Gingerly, but with irresitible strength, he prised her fingers away from the wound and unlaced her tunic where it was fastened at the shoulder. The section of material fell away, and fresh air hit the cut, making Sophia wince.

Admittedly, it was worse than she'd originally thought. It was as long as her hand and the edges didn't look too good, like they were infected. It was quite deep too, and the memory of the cold steel slicing though her skin washed over her, her eyes closing unvoluntarily. Mordred whistled tunelessly through his teeth and his brow furrowed with worry, a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows.

"It's bad, right?" She deliberately kept her voice light, trying to make it seem less serious and get the haunting look out of Mordred's eyes. It didn't work.

"I'll kill them," he said, his voice low and shaking with anger. "I'll kill them! How could they do this to you? How dare they?"

"Mordred, it's okay. It'll heal. Besides, I've had worse. Remember when I fell out of that tree? And when Ayre almost crushed my fingers with that log? I couldn't shoot for weeks. I guess I'm lucky you were there to do it for me." Sophia ran her fingers through his hair and grinned as she felt the ire drain out of him. She always knew how to distract him. The corners of his mouth twitched, and she carried on: "I remember the first time I took you hunting, you tripped over a bramble and fell in the pool in the middle of the woods. I like that pool," she added mischevously, knowing they were both thinking of the afternoon when they had been play-fighting by the water. Mordred was completely calm now, lost in the web of memories she had created, and his eyes closed. "I know, by the way," she told him, her eyes softening.

"You know what?"

"I know you never stopped. Because I didn't either." And with that, she leaned in for another kiss.

Rebecca shivered in the cold night air. The castle had windows, but no glass, meaning it could get bitterly cold. Finding a slightly more sheltered corner, she leaned against the wall and slid down the the floor, huddling there and thinking about everything that had happened in the past twenty four hours.

As the black shape above the trees had gotten larger, she had begun to gallop, urging Ciel, her white mare, even faster as the shadow kept up effortlessly. Fear made every angle sharper, and her thoughts had suddenly become very clear; it was as though something inside her had woken up. She knew how to fight, of course - her father had trained her in swordsmanship since she was old enough to hold a dagger - but all the skill in the world wouldn't defeat the dragon chasing her. Then disaster had struck; Ciel stumbled and Rebecca was thrown off. Rolling to ease the jarring impact on her shoulder, she had lain in the leaves for a moment, dazed, before scrambling to her feet and scanning the sky again desperately. It was still there, of course, and she began to run, run until her breath tore through her chest in ragged, desperate gasps and her muscled shrieked for relief, only to be stopped by the sight of a knight riding the opposite way, towards the citadel. _Gwaine._ She had never been so pleased to see anybody in her life.

"My lady? What's wrong?" Even through her terror, Rebecca still thrilled to his voice, deep, seductive and as smooth as honey. She couldn't answer, though - her vocal chords seemed to have momentarily vanished.

Everything happened very slowly, then. It seemed to take forever for the Great Dragon to plunge through the trees, and the wails of the broken trees ripped through the air, making her flinch. She knew, in that moment, that she was going to die, and a cool peace swept over her, loosening her joints and relaxing her mind. Gently, ever so gently, she felt a dark veil creep across her vision, and she vaguely noticed her knees give way beneath her as she crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings have been cut. The last thing she was aware of was Gwaine's face, his eyes vulnerable and terrified for her, as a steel claw the length of her sword curled around her waist and pulled her away.

The forest was beautiful in the mid afternoon, Arthur knew, but he couldn't appreciate it today. The previous night's fight hung over him like a glowering blue -piled thundercloud. He remembered the scream of the young druid girl whose shoulder he'd slashed, and the feeling of watching the lights leave that man's eyes as his life ebbed away with the tide of crimson blood from hs chest. For the first time, he felt no pride in having won - he felt disgusted. He thought of what Rebecca would say, and immediately wished he hadn't: The thought of her, what she might be going through, sent a bolt of agony through him straight to his heart. Arthur may not have been the most sensitive of men, but he cared more about the Lady Rebecca than anybody he had ever met. He was in love with her. Oh god, he was in love with her. The realisation swept over him like sinking into a warm bath, and he could have sworn he had never felt anything so terrifying or liberating in his life. The Triskellion seemed to burn red hot beneath his cloak, and in his mind he enforced his determination: _He had to find her._


End file.
